They ask for much who seek for immortality This dust does not keep well susceptible as it is to every wind Water that carved these canyons is long fled to the open seas All that remains in them are hollow echoes

They ask for much who pursue great destiny Dreams die at break of day vulnerable as they are to sunlight Good fortune is a fickle mistress a tin goddess in silver-plate All empires fall with time with them emperors

The river runs wide that leads into this life It’s wider still leading out Neither fortune nor reputation will keep the dying man afloat The littler the human ego the larger man’s soul

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About Peter Notehelfer

I'm a retired people person who now finds the time to watch the little details of the world without worrying about being watched by anyone . . . I live on an Island north of Seattle with my wife named Ellen, a yellow dog named McGee, a yellow cat named Gatzby, and four fine chickens . . . I read fiction, bake bread, smoke salmon, and fish whenever the weather allows . . . Oh, and yes, I try to write a poem every day simply to avoid senility!